


left somebody's heart in a mess

by amleth



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Background Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier - Freeform, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26828908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amleth/pseuds/amleth
Summary: Richie was on his third hit when Stan came down. Stan was holding the railing. That was adorable.Stanwas adorable.“You’re adorable,” Richie told him.“I’m not smoking with you, Richie,” Stan said, and pushed his legs aside to make room on the couch.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	left somebody's heart in a mess

Richie hated parties, he decided. This was, as his Ethics teacher liked to say, an _abiding truth_ that he hadn’t been aware of before locking himself in a basement with the Schuler family’s Bruce Springsteen paraphernalia.

 _Darkness on the Edge of Town_ Bruce was making uncomfortably long eye contact with him. Like he thought Richie was gonna burn the place down or something.

“I’m not gonna burn the place down or something,” Richie assured Bruce, and took another hit, stretching out on the vinyl couch.

They would probably go upstairs, he thought. He could picture Irene Schuler’s parents’ bedroom: shag carpeting that Mrs. Schuler cited every time Irene asked for a dog, the bedding some heinous green that Mr. and Mrs. Schuler thought of as tasteful.

There would be no Bruce Springsteen paraphernalia in the bedroom. No, Mrs. Schuler would have made that clear to Mr. Schuler. If I was Mr. Schuler, Richie thought, I would dispose of all my paraphernalia for you _immediately_ , Mrs. Schuler. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Richie was on his third hit when Stan came down. Stan was holding the railing. That was adorable. _Stan_ was adorable.

“You’re adorable,” Richie told him.

“I’m not smoking with you, Richie,” Stan said, and pushed his legs aside to make room on the couch.

“That’s what they all say.”

Richie threw a leg over Stan, but Stan shoved him off and Richie didn’t try again because Stan wasn’t _Eddie_ and would actually kick Richie off the couch if he kept it up. “If you’re referring to Bill, he only did that to impress Bev.”

Richie snorted. “So did I, and look at me now.”

Stan shut his eyes with a sigh. Richie had been leaving cigarette butts in Stan’s basement since fifth grade, but Stan knew that and Richie knew that Stan knew that and Stan had long since passed the deadline to make a big deal out of it.

Richie wanted, suddenly, to take a hit in Stan’s face to fuck with him, but last time he’d done that, Stan had straight-up left the room. Then Richie would be left alone with Bruce again.

“Are you going to leave me, Staniel?” Richie asked. “Say a girl comes down here asking for some kosher dick.”

Stan opened his eyes. He looked, as he always looked to Richie, like a perpetually disappointed parent. “No one would say that but you, Rich. I’d tell you no.”

“Aw, _Stan_.” Richie shoved him and Stan rubbed his shoulder, frowning, though it couldn’t have hurt much. Richie had spider limbs. “You know I’d be a _perfect_ gentleman with your gentle dick. Besides, you gotta Stan the Man-up one of these days.”

Stan pursed his lips, considering. “You think I’m still a virgin,” he realized, that dry, matter-of-fact voice that Richie always thought made him sound like more of an asshole than any of them. His ears had gone a little pink.

Richie sat up straight, eyes popping. He didn’t pinch Stan’s cheeks, because, again, Stan wasn’t _Eddie_ , but he gave Stan a manly pat on the back that was no more welcome and said, “ _Stanley_! My little punim, all grown up.” Of his grandparents’ Yiddish, Richie remembered only what he could use to annoy Stan. “Speaking of virgins, has Sue made her move on Eds yet? Did he cry?”

The last thing that Richie had seen: Eddie relaxed against the upstairs railing, talking excitedly with his hands; Sue unsubtly touching his arm.

Stan had given Richie fifteen minutes. He’d timed it.

“Last I saw, they were just talking,” Stan said carefully.

Eddie had also been inching toward his inhaler, but Richie didn’t need _that_ to read into.

Richie laughed, an ugly sound. “ _Lame_. At this rate, you and I are gonna be the only Losers to graduate knowing what the fuck we’re doing.”

Richie was facing forward again, had been since he’d begun this line of questioning.

Stan watched him carefully. “You don’t have to say stuff like that to me, you know.” Musing, he added, “We don’t know about Bill and Bev. Don’t forget them.”

Even if they’ve forgotten us, he didn't say.

Richie pointed his joint at Stan in approval. Then, remembering, he took another hit. “You’re right. You know, I bet they’ve shacked up together at Bev’s aunt’s house in Portland. They probably think they met at a Baskin-Robbins.”

Stan frowned. Richie still had his eyes on the wall. “Bill’s family moved to Vermont, so that seems unlikely.”

“Wow, Stan,” Richie huffed. “Don’t be such a romantic. You’re killing all my jokes here.”

Richie lifted his wrist again and Stan put a hand on his shoulder. “Rich.”

Richie turned, _finally_ , to Stan. He’d changed since school, into a t-shirt and jeans combo that almost made him believable as a teenager, if not for the Rolex and tucked-in shirt. He’d washed his hair since school, too, and it was haloed by a neon sign, telling Richie that he’d been _BORN TO RUN_.

Richie looked down at Stan’s hand and the absurdity of the situation hit him. A lot was hitting him, right then, but his head was clear. Clear as a whistle.

There was only one reason you followed someone into an empty basement at a party, right?

“What are you even doing down here, Stan?” Richie asked, quiet, and Stan felt his stomach drop, heard the music change. He had done something wrong.

Richie set his joint down on the table. He had this—grin, legs shaking, and Stan thought that it had been a long time since he had seen Richie so scared.

Stan’s palm was beginning to itch. “I was worried about you.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie said, and then he kissed him.

Stan hadn’t been kissed by many people and had only slept with one, but he was pretty sure this was Richie’s first kiss with anyone. He repeated this fact to himself as he fought the instinct to shove Richie off, because even if fifteen-year-old Stan had thought about this before, he didn’t want _this_ : someone else’s parents’ couch, the shitty upstairs stereo bouncing off the walls, Richie with weed on his breath and Eddie in his rearview. Richie was grabbing at Stan’s shoulders like he had to, _had_ to do this before either of them remembered why it was a bad idea.

Richie thought this was always a bad idea in a way that he carried around the graffitied hallways and into the Schulers’ basement. Stan sometimes worried it was a bad idea, checked out when his Orthodox relatives broached the subject and stared resolutely at his plate, listing bird species to himself, but he needed, _needed_ Richie to know that it wasn’t.

With this in mind, Stan kissed him back, but then Richie put a hand on his knee and Stan jerked away out of instinct. “Rich, stop.”

Richie blinked, his mouth open and red and stupid. I did that, Stan thought, awed and horrified. I did that to Richie.

Richie stood so abruptly that the couch shook, Stan’s legs hitting the table. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you _wanted_ me to kiss you, to… I was just doing what you wanted.”

“Richie—”

Stan reached for his arm, but Richie shoved him off. “Get away from me, fucking faggot.”

Stan might’ve reacted more strongly to those words, might’ve cataloged them somewhere if he hadn’t noticed, in that moment, that Richie was crying.

Stan followed Richie, who was taking large, swaying steps through the Springsteen eras. Richie skidded on a stray record and Stan caught his arm, sparing a moment’s apology for Mr. Schuler.

“Rich, slow down.” Richie was avoiding his eye again. His face was _so_ red. “Let me get you some water.”

Richie turned abruptly, not strong enough to shake Stan off but petty enough to force Stan into an uncomfortable position. “I don’t _want_ your water. You’re a faggot and you’re gonna get AIDS if you haven’t already and they’re gonna have to chop the rest of your dick off.”

Stan put his other hand to his forehead; he didn’t know how to shut Richie up when he was _sober_. He tried to think what Bill would do, but Bill was fucking _gone_ and, anyway, Bill would never have—

Stan tried honesty. “Richie, I don’t care if you’re—”

But Richie was gone, babbling, “And you won’t get any visitors in the hospital ‘cause Eddie and Ben and Mike will have moved away and forgotten you by then and I’ll remember but I won’t visit ‘cause I’ll know it’s ‘cause you’re a faggot. You’ll be left alone again.”

Stan flinched. It was one of the first times they had talked about the incident in years, but Stan couldn’t think about that, not then. He repeated, voice bordering on angry, “I don’t _care_.”

Richie didn’t seem to hear, shoved a finger in his face. “You _followed_ me down here! You’ve always been so fucking weird, Stan. Bill told me the first time I introduced you—‘say, Richie, your f-f-friend’s a little weird, keep an eye on him.’ Better make sure Mrs. K doesn’t find out, because she sure as hell won’t want her son hanging out with—”

Stan didn’t want to hear him say it again. He clamped a hand over Richie’s mouth. “ _Stop that_! Stop talking about yourself like that!”

Richie’s eyes wobbled. He was _shaking_ , mumbling into Stan’s wet palm, but Stan held his gaze. Richie needed to see that he knew, see how angry it made Stan to hear him use that word when he knew.

Richie sank to the floor.

Richie looked so small, curled in on himself on the carpet floor, and that wasn’t right. Richie was always taking up so much fucking space. Hogging the hammock until Eddie had no choice but to share it with him or throwing an arm around Eddie when they were watching a scary movie or sitting on Eddie’s lap when he didn’t _need_ to, there was _space_.

Richie would smile. Blindingly, Stan thought. “But then you’d miss me, Eddie my love.”

Stan wanted Eddie, right then. Wanted to drag him downstairs and say, “Look what you did, Eddie. Do you have any idea what you _did_?”

Richie might’ve ended the night crying on somebody’s floor regardless, Stan reminded himself. There were other boys.

“There are other boys,” he imagined telling Richie. It wouldn’t go over well.

Stan sat down on the floor next to Richie. After a few moments, he put a hand on Richie’s back. Richie didn’t pull away.

Stan thought of a hundred things he could say in that moment. None of them would have meant anything to Richie.

They stayed like that for a long time. Stan’s back was approaching sore when Richie stood, his eyes still red, but not enough that he couldn’t blame it on the weed. Stan followed, grabbing Richie’s joint and lighter off the table. 

At the foot of the stairs, Richie turned. He had that look in his eye like he was thinking of a way to insult you, lighten the mood, then left Stan hanging.


End file.
